


reparations

by v3ilfire



Series: i fought the war, but the war won [17]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: All That Remains, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 07:37:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3842485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v3ilfire/pseuds/v3ilfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>an AU where 'demands of the qun' takes place before 'all that remains.' </p><p>a brief exploration on family ties, blood or otherwise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. from the ashes

**Author's Note:**

> implied fenris/f!hawke in later chapters. also violence. 
> 
>  
> 
> [on the tumbls.](http://v3ilfire.tumblr.com/post/117666162552/reparations-1-3)

For the first time since the duel, standing no longer required the aid of another person. There were no more Circle healers buzzing about her chambers, or Templars in the hall. There were only letters – stacks of them, piled up over three months of bedrest, all of which needed answering. In no rush to tackle the task, Hawke took a moment to hobble about the room, her bare feet padding back and forth in front of the fireplace. Walking was a chore, her sense of balance skewed by potions and salves meant to dull the pain. She had no doubt that the entire estate reeked of mint and elfroot – a petty cost for what she assumed to be a great relief.

It took time to gather resolve, but eventually, the woman made her way to the writing desk. On her way, she caught a passing glimpse of herself in the mirror, and the sight gave her pause. She was much thinner than before, almost frail at first glance, and her hair draped comfortably below her shoulders – longer than she had ever kept it since Ostagar. Three months of bedrest even dulled the definition in her arms and legs, and she was sure the healers had taken the time to soften the calluses on her palms. Out of sheer curiosity, her hands drifted to the hem of her shirt, and slowly, pushed the fabric up and over her pale belly, exposing the marred flesh of her abdomen. The scar forming there was still raw, a gleaming reminder of a duel she had very nearly lost; a city very nearly destroyed.

“The Knight-Commander was very kind to offer all of those Circle healers.”  
The shirt dropped quickly back down to Hawke’s hips as she turned to face her mother. Leandra was already busy arranging all sorts of garments on Hawke’s bed, each a generous gift from the city’s finest tailors. ‘For our lady Champion,’ the notes had said, each tacked onto what Hawke assumed was a gaudy and, frankly, _suffocating_ example of clothing.  
“I'm still convinced she's insane."  
"I never said I liked the woman. Only that I'm glad she took care of you."  
"I wish I had been awake when Bethany was here.”  
“She misses you.”  
“I miss her, too. You’re not _nearly_ as much fun to get in trouble with.”  
Leandra shot her daughter a disapproving look, but Hawke caught the slight upturn at the corner of the woman’s mouth.  
“I think you’ve seen enough trouble for a lifetime. Come, now, try some of these. Your banquet is tomorrow.”

Hawke had not been wrong about the dresses. She sighed as she looked upon the frills and lace and lavish embroidery, each an ill fit for a woman whose claim to fame was single-handedly stopping a Qunari invasion – and that was without considering her career as a mercenary and ill-fated vigilante.  
“Mother… no.”  
“You don’t like _any_ of them? What about this one?” Leandra said, indicating a pile of crimson satin that Hawke found rather indistinguishable from all the other piles of fabric on her bed.  
“The one that looks suspiciously like one of my curtains? Hard pass, unfortunately.”  
Leandra allowed herself an exasperated sigh as Hawke plucked at one of the gowns with her thumb and forefinger, barely lifting the thing up before letting it flop right back down.  
“Well, what are you going to wear, then? The house robe? Your armor?”

Hawke laughed, ignoring the painful pricks her abdomen sent in response.  
“Sure! Might as well give them the Qunari-slayer they expect to see.”

Much to Leandra’s relief, Hawke did not follow through on her promise to wear armor, no matter how tempting it was. There was no gown involved, either, but the Champion managed to look regal enough regardless. A dress shirt tucked itself comfortably into a pair of high-waisted pants, laces hidden below the cut of a crimson vest, traced with gold. Bodhan had polished a pair of boots she had yet to destroy, and Leandra insisted that, if not a gown, then her daughter was to at _least_ do her the favor of letting down her hair. It mattered little – the dark locks barely stayed draped over one shoulder, but it seemed to make her mother happy enough to keep.

A knock at the door pulled Hawke’s attention away from the mirror, right to the shit-eating grin of her favorite partner-in-crime.    
“I almost didn’t recognize you, Hawke. You could _actually_ pass for a noble.”  
“It’s been a while, Varric.”  
“No one’s fault but the Knight-Commander’s. She had Templars posted outside your door right up until you opened your pretty little eyes. Aveline could barely get herself in here, let alone sneak in the elf, two apostates, a pirate, and a _very_ handsome dwarf.”  
“I heard the estate was busy for a while. Apparently, I lost a _lot_ of blood getting stabbed.”  

Varric’s laughter was nearly cacophonous in the quiet space of the estate, a welcome chaos in the wake of being treated like her bones were suddenly made of glass by everyone short of the dog.  
“For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re not dead. Now, as your cleanest companion, your mother asked me to be your escort to tonight’s festivities. My lady Hawke, honored Champion of Kirkwall, would you do me the honor?”

The dwarf offered Hawke his elbow in a flourish, which she took with overzealous grace and dignity.  
“Why, Master Tethras, you’re making me blush. You even covered up your chest hair for me!" she said, nodding towards the scarf tucked into his vest. "The honor is all mine.”

Going down the stairs was a challenge all its own, but Hawke made sure to lean most of her weight on the railing and not her date for the evening. She was sure Varric could feel the difference in her stride, the way her weight wasn’t quite settled in the right place yet.

She would always be grateful for his silence on the matter.

Hawke found Leandra in the study, scribbling quietly away on a bit of parchment, all draped in navy and dripping with jewels. It was a rare sight, for certain; even since moving into the Amell estate, they had few occasions for which to really dress up, and Hawke attended even fewer of the ones they were invited to. Despite living in the mansion for nearly a year, the sight of her mother looking like a proper noble was still foreign to her.  
  
“And here you promised me you wouldn’t put on airs.”  
Leandra set her quill aside with a sigh, though she could not hide her joy for seeing her daughter up and out of bed again, let alone dressed for a party.  
“Allow your mother her idle fancies, dear. It’s been a long time since I could dress like this.”  
“You look lovely, mother. Shall we go?”

Leandra shot Varric a meaningful look, to which he replied with a nod.  
“Actually, Hawke, we have a little surprise for you, first. You’re coming with me.” 


	2. the champion's usual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a return to familiar faces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have a party before i destroy everything

The walk to Lowtown was more strenuous than Hawke would have like to admit, but she found that the more she moved, the less her body insisted on complaining. They arrived rather unceremoniously at the Hanged Man, nearly rebuilt after the invasion, standing strong in the middle of rubble-strewn streets. The destruction seemed to get worse farther out from Hightown - though she couldn't say she was surprised to see that. Just when she thought Gamlen's hovel couldn't possibly get worse, fate proved her wrong in the most ostentatious way it knew how. 

“The Hanged Man, Varric? Not a very surprising location.”  
“Just trust me, Hawke. When have I ever lead you astray?”  
“Would you like me to list off things that have happened since we met, or just in the last year?”  
Varric ignored her and instead, gestured towards the door. Hawke hesitated, but her curiosity soon got the best of her and the wood gave way under the pressure of her palms.

The Champion of Kirkwall was met by deafening cheers, the most distinct of which was Merrill’s cry of, “Lethallin!” as she threw her arms around the woman. Hawke returned the hug in earnest, eyes closed against all the hands reaching out to pat her on the shoulders and the toasts cried out in her honor. She held Merrill at arm’s length after she could bear to let the elf go, both women beaming at each other.   
“Merrill! Oh, what a sight for sore eyes you are.”  
“I’m so glad you’re back! I thought for sure you had died – when the Arishok stabbed you, and all, that looked _very_ bad, but I’m so glad you didn’t!”  
“Alright, Daisy, let her make it upstairs. We’ve got a palatial suite to occupy, remember?”

Hawke barely made it through the celebratory crowd, faces she recognized from her time spent in the pub and the Bone Pit and running about the docks – even some denizens from Hightown and members of the guard had made it down to cheer for Kirkwall’s finest set of blades. It took Varric’s careful guidance and Merrill’s enthusiastic support to finally push Hawke into the clear and pull her expertly up the stairs to the suite, only to be greeted by Anders’s feathers in her face and his arms about her back. Hawke laughed as she held him, inhaling his usual strange mix of lyrium and elfroot and whatever scent Darktown seemed to be blowing about that week.   
"Maker, am I glad to see you!"   
"Anders, I was so bored I almost read your manifesto."   
He laughed, and suddenly the past three months lifted off of Hawke's shoulders and she laughed, too, nearly giddy. 

“Let everyone else have a turn, Blondie. You’re not the only one that missed her.”  
Anders let Hawke go, but not without allowing the medic in him to give the woman a proper once-over.  
“What have they been feeding you? Bird seed?”   
“That and broth, if I’ve been a good girl,” she joked, but Aveline’s hand on the mage’s shoulder forced him to move aside before he could respond. They hugged as well, survivors of Blight and Qunari invasion alike, . Hawke was held until Aveline was _sure_ she suppressed her tears, though they had been ready to spill over her lashes just moments ago.

“There she is: the renowned Champion of Kirkwall! How does it feel?”  
“Kind of like Guard-Captain, but instead of money they seem to pay me in parties.”  
"Suitable currency for you, I'd think."   
"I'd rather wine, to be honest, but I'll take what I can get."   
Aveline laughed, moving aside for Fenris’s quiet footsteps. He was noticeably avoiding Hawke’s gaze, his eyes lost in the space between his hands, a red scarf still tied about his wrist. 

“I … I was …”  
For once, Hawke kept her mouth shut. Her heart leapt into her throat, and promptly plummeted back down when the elf finally looked at her, a forced distance in his eyes.  
“I am glad you’re back.”

A handshake. She took it with hesitation, ignoring the spark of surprise in his face when he felt the soft hands of a noble instead of the worn grasp of a warrior, though it was just as firm. The look was followed promptly by a dull sadness, a confirmation of his decision. He let her go quickly, and paced back to his corner of the room, already lost to his own thoughts. Varric watched the elf retreat, the suite silent just long enough to feel tense, but then the sudden tightening in Hawke's chest was interrupted by Anders’s arm about her shoulders and a sloshing mug shoved into her hands.   
“Come on, let’s give you a proper welcome back before those nobles can bore you into another three months of bedrest.”  
“Do you have that on proper medical authority?”  
“Of course he does!” Varric yelled, already ordering another round for all of them. “He’ll glow if you don’t listen. Now, drink!”  

Hawke was shocked to find out she actually _missed_ the stale ale of the Hanged Man, or perhaps they just brought out the good swill for her sake. Either way, she managed to gulp nearly half the mug before she was forced to come back up for air. She was overjoyed to see her friends again, more than she thought she ever could be; being cooped up in an empty house with only the dwarves, Orana, and her mother for company was not exactly the same as a life of violence and reluctant do-gooding.

The most reluctant of the do-gooders, however, seemed to be missing.  
“Where’s Isabela?”  
“You know Rivaini. She’s gone off again. Did it twice in the last month, but she keeps coming back.”  
“She’s running again, Hawke. She feels guilty because you almost died for her stupidity,” came Aveline’s interjection. “I’m still sorry I didn’t kick her ass for it."  
"I'm surprised to hear that it wasn't your first order of business." 

A couple of hours of rambunctious festivities and a particularly high-stakes game of Wicked Grace was apparently the best healing Hawke could have asked for. By the time Varric announced it was her time to leave and entertain the nobles (given that she was already rather fashionably late to her own party), she was just tipsy enough to ignore the occasional pricks of her scars and the dull ache in her head and the weight of Fenris's presence and Isabela's absence. She was full, and happy, and _hopeful_ , and the ruined streets ran a little less red in her eyes, if only until she sobered.

“Master Tethras, let us make an appearance at my banquet, shall we?”

Hawke took Varric’s elbow once more, but as they turned to leave, she felt fingertips on her wrist and found Fenris standing there, stiff, masking a look of fear she had not ever seen him wear - not even in the face of slavers.  
“Hawke – I … be careful.”

The Champion’s quick nod was the assurance he needed to let go of her and let her return to her waiting audience.


End file.
